


Gloria

by DarkHeartInTheSky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Destiel Secret Santa 2018, M/M, Post-Season/Series 11, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 07:03:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17137211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkHeartInTheSky/pseuds/DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: This Christmas, Dean has plans. This Christmas is going to be the best Christmas they've ever had because Cas is with them.





	Gloria

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blueeyesandpie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueeyesandpie/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to everyone, but especially my Secret Santa giftee! The original prompt was just a simple "Destiel becomes canon on Christmas" so I had lots of freedom. This is probably the fluffiest thing I have ever written--it was a challenge, but I loved it! Thank you for giving me a reason to write out of my comfort zone. <3

**December 22nd**

 

“I think we should do Christmas this year,” Dean said.

 

Sam looked up from over his laptop and squinted. He paused for several seconds, and Dean’s heart rammed inside his chest in anticipation. 

 

“And I mean a real Christmas,” Dean continued. “Not our usual skin mags and SlimJims trade-off. I’m thinking, turkey dinner, tree--whole nine yards.”

 

“Really?” Sam finally said, closing his laptop. “Why?”

 

Dean licked his lips. He knew Sam would ask this question. He had prepared an answer, but suddenly he couldn’t pull the words from his chest. It seemed too personal, too honest.  _ Because I wanna do something nice for Cas,  _ he thought.  _ Because I want to show him that being human isn’t a shitty thing to be. Because I want to do better than last time he lost his grace.  _ Instead, he answered, “Because why not?”

 

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You’re usually Mr. Scrooge about the holidays, Dean. Worse, actually. Did your heart finally grow three sizes? We might need to take you to a doctor.”

 

“First of all,” Dean said, “you’re mixing metaphors. Second of all: shut up.” Then his face flushed in embarrassment. 

 

“What?” Sam said, prodding teasingly. 

 

“Lawrence has a tree lighting Christmas Eve. I was thinking we should go.”

 

“Who are you and what have you done with my brother?”

 

“I’m serious! Okay, there’s not really enough time to get presents, but I don’t care about that. I just want to you know. . . decorate. Have a nice dinner. Be together. We can get drunk on eggnog and watch  _ A Christmas Story _ . Just something more than ignoring it.”

 

“Decorating? A tree lighting? That’s the most un-you thing that’s ever come out of your mouth.”

 

Dean continued to stare at Sam. Sam stared back for several seconds, then huffed lightly. 

 

“You know what? I think it’s a great idea.” Sam’s face was impassive, making it difficult to determine whether or not he was sincere. 

 

Regardless, something uncoiled in Dean’s chest. “Really?”

 

Sam’s eyes slipped towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms; the hallway that Cas was down, sleeping still, even though it was nearly noon. “Yeah,” Sam said. “It’ll be good, I think. Fun, even. Might even be nice. Shit knows we don’t get that near enough.”

 

_ Fun, _ Dean thought.  _ Nice. _ He reached into his pocket and felt the ring between his fingers. It was cold and heavy as he fiddled with it. He wasn’t sure if  _ fun  _ was the correct word. It would be something. Dean hoped it would be several somethings.

 

His heart still pounded in his chest.

 

“You wanna wake Sleeping Beauty so we can go out and get a tree?” Sam asked.

 

Dean swallowed and nodded. “I got him, yeah.”

 

.

.

.

 

There had been an awful ten seconds when Dean thought Cas was dead. Amara hit Lucifer with that enormous ball of energy, but Cas was there too, and he wasn’t moving, slumped over, breathing too shallow to notice. For ten, awful, eternal seconds, Dean thought Cas was dead.

 

But he wasn’t. He was alive. Dean felt Cas’s heartbeat under his fingertips and he almost sobbed out of relief. Cas was human, but he was  _ alive _ . Dean threw his arms around Cas’s shoulders and sagged into Cas, crying on his shoulder.

 

Cas didn’t take to humanity well. He’d been quiet, moreso than usual. He stayed in his room most of the day and barely ate, insead just pushing his food around on his plate with his fork. Talking with Cas was like pulling teeth; and Dean didn’t want to fight with him. 

 

Out of his suit and too-large coat, Cas was nearly unrecognizable. Snow boots replaced his typical dress shoes, and instead of a crooked tie, now it was a scarf that hung loosely around his neck; every few minutes, he tugged at it, like it was slowly strangling him.

 

And maybe it was. Who knew? Dean got the feeling Cas felt like he was slowly suffocating most of the time. 

 

The tree yard was sparse. The pickings were slim, being a few days before Christmas. There would be no extravagant, twelve-foot trees filled with green, prickly pines and the fresh smell of forests. The remaining ones were pretty dingy--they’d been picked apart by birds and rats. The branches were limp, swinging morosely with the wind. The snow was too heavy, weighing branches down towards the ground.

 

“Guess we’re having a Charlie Brown Christmas,” Sam said, touching a branch lightly. It sagged sadly downwards to the ground.

 

“Better than no Christmas, right?” Dean said, suddenly feeling unsure. He looked towards Cas, who was examining a tree with such ferocity, Dean wondered if he might actually be arguing with it. 

 

“Of course,” Sam said.  “It’ll be great. Like you said--we’re together. Not often that happens. We should celebrate.”

 

The salesman kept circling around them, irritated and impatient. Dean finally pointed to the tree Cas kept looking at. 

.

.

.

 

**December 23rd**

 

It was a modest tree. Five-feet tall and nearing death. Ornaments were too heavy to hang. They didn’t have a star to put on top, or tinsel to circle around the circumference. Sam took apart an old cardboard box to use as the skirt, and already, the needles were falling off like diseased limbs. 

 

“I think it brightens up the room,” Sam said.

 

“I still don’t understand why there is a tree inside,” Cas said, sniffing, voice hoarser than usual from coughing. He rubbed at his nose. Pine allergies were apparently a thing they had to think about now. 

 

“It’s tradition,” Dean said, serving out glasses of eggnog. Cas still looked dubious. He sniffed his glass before taking a tentative sip, and made a face with an emotion Dean couldn’t describe. 

 

“Well?” Dean asked. Cas sniffed again, face crinkling in disgust. 

 

“Humanity has come up with many ingenious, imaginative, almost-heavenly creations throughout time. This. . . is not one of them.”

 

Sam snorted and chuckled. Dean’s face flushed again.

 

“We don’t drink it for the taste,” Dean said. “We drink it to get drunk. Feliz Navidad.”

 

Cas shrugged and then downed the rest of his glass in one swallow. There was some on his lip. It was a sight Dean never expected to see of Cas. He coughed and tried to regain his composure. Cas poured himself another glass and finished that one in less than three large, gulps. 

 

“Careful,” Dean said. “Don’t got that angel tolerance anymore.”

 

“Indeed,” Cas said. “I think I’m starting to feel something.”

 

“Lightweight,” Sam teased. He shoved Cas gently by the shoulder. “We’ll fix that in no time, right?”

 

“Dean’s blood-alcohol content does average out at a .02 on his day-to-day basis,” Cas said, tilting his head slightly. 

 

“Hey!” Dean said, but he couldn’t find it in him to be truly offended. Not really. Not when Cas looked like he was enjoying himself, at least a little bit. 

 

The ring still weighed heavy in his pocket. Dean chugged slowly another glass of eggnog.

.

.

.

 

“All right,” Dean said evenly, despite his internal panic causing his heart to slam against his ribcage with all the force of a bull. “Lesson learned. Next time, we’ll do the grocery shopping earlier.”

 

“You think?” Sam snapped. The store was jam-packed. People filled Dean’s entire line of sight, every direction, bustingly, talking, shoving past him and under him, with their screaming kids. The aisles had been pillaged through and through, and all they had been able to salvage was a pack of turkey breasts--not a full turkey, but just a plain package of Tyson breasts--one package of Hawaiian sweet bread rolls, a small tub of  _ I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! _ , canned green beans, instant mashed potatoes, and Cas, somehow, managed to snag a box of red velvet cake mix. 

 

“It’ll be fine,” Dean said, looking at their shopping cart. Actually, this was still going to be the grandest holiday dinner they’d ever had. Usually they just did frozen pizza, or Chinese take out. “Look, we got our protein, we got carbs, veggies, dessert--everything we need to have a nice dinner tomorrow.”

 

Beside him, Cas eyed every stranger as though he were making a tactical decision. It would probably come in handy, as Dean figured getting to check out and leaving the store was going to require all their battle combat experience combined. 

 

“Let’s go,” Sam said, tugging on Dean’s sleeve. “I’m getting claustrophobic.”

“Sounds like a personal problem, Samantha,” Dean said, but they slowly started to inch their way to the exit, together, like a British army, shoulder to shoulder. 

 

.

.

.

 

That night, Dean dreamed he was standing out in an wide, open field, all alone. The sky was above him was dark and void of stars; the grass beneath him was dry and crunched underneath his boots. The air was humid. Sweat trickled down Dean’s neck and his shirt stuck to his skin uncomfortably. He pulled at his shirt collar and swallowed.

 

“Look,” a voice said behind him. Dean jumped. 

 

There was some kind of angel behind him. Dean could tell from the suit-get up. He vaguely recognized her, but her name was lost. Longe, blonde hair that curled at the ends. Her eyebrows were pinched together in a scowl, and her mouth was turned downwards. She pointed to the sky. Dean looked back at the Nothingness above him--and then there was Something. A bright ball of blueish-white light, with the barest hint of orange. It flickered like a flame in the wind; a match in a hurricane. 

 

It seemed far away and small.

 

And then it got bigger. Closer. Warmer. 

 

It was getting closer. It started to take up the entire expanse of the sky.

 

“Castiel is  _ Falling _ ,” the angel said. There was such anger in her eyes. Resentment. Putrid hatred. “From the  _ moment _ , he laid a hand on you in Hell,” she said, vitriol dripping from her voice teeth barred like a wild, cornered animal, “he was lost.” She ended in a whisper.

 

The light exploded. 

 

.

.

.

 

**December 24th**

 

It snowed. 

 

Not by much. Barely an inch, and it wasn’t a nice, fluffy snow, but clumpy, dirty. But it was snow, and it made the atmosphere feel much more Christmasy. 

Cas knelt down and rubbed the snow between his fingertips with an inquisitive gaze. Then, he stuck his fingers in his mouth, and fought off both Sam and Dean like a recalcitrant toddler when they chastised him in a mix of abhorrence and disgust--”It’s  _ different _ now,” Cas said, not understanding the fuss.  “It’s so much--- _ more. _ ” 

 

A few minutes later, Dean stepped in possum shit and remembered why he hated snow in the first place. He stomped and swore and tried to get it off by grinding the sole of his boot against a tree stump, but it did little; Sam and Cas grinned at him, and Dean huffed and pouted, but there was a warmth in his chest he couldn’t smother. 

 

.

.

.

 

The turkey ended up being dry; the mashed potatoes too salty. The green beans were. . . well, vegetables, so they weren’t going to be good regardless, and the rolls were just too doughy for Dean’s taste.

 

The best thing was the red velvet cake, even if he did come from a box. It was moist and sweet and melted in the mouth. Dean wasn’t even a cake person, but if he could have  _ this _ cake, everytime, every day, he could be swayed.

 

Sam was in the middle of a story--something from their childhood; surely Cas has heard this one before--the chupacabra hunt Dad took them on before Sam left for college. Dean shot two beavers thinking they were the monster before the real culprit jumped them from the trees--(“In my defense,” Dean interrupted snappily, “the lore never said anything about those motherfuckers being able to climb.)

 

Cas just sat and grinned though, the entire time; as interested as the first time he must’ve heard this story. And he kept that grin when Sam moved onto another story--the Christmases spent in lonely, moldy motel rooms with grilled cheese sandwiches, watching the  _ Frosty the Snowman  _ special on loop for hours. The New Years’ Dean managed to grab a bottle of whiskey from the gas station and hid it under his coat--he and Sam managed to get a quarter of the way through it before they both were throwing up into the snow, miserable and hungover.

 

“When Dad found out what happened,” Sam said, laughing softly, “he just rolled his eyes and asked, ‘you boys learn your lesson, then?’” 

 

Dean rolled his eyes. “I thought he was going to shit a brick. We got off easy, didn’t we?”

 

Sam shuddered. “I had vertigo for two days.”

 

“Weak!”

Cas looked at them, the question obvious in his eyes.

 

“It wasn’t all bad,” Dean said, sighing. “There were bad moments, yeah. But I like to think it was mostly good. Dad--”

 

“You loved him,” Cas said. 

 

“Yeah.” Dean put his fork down. “Man, if he could see us now. I wonder what he’d think.”

 

“He’d be proud,” Cas said matter-of-factly. Surety flamed in his eyes. “I’m know he’s so proud of the both of you.”

 

Sam grinned slightly into his eggnog and playfully thumped Cas on the back.

 

Dean looked down at his fingernails. It’d been a while since they’d been on a hunt--his nails were actually growing out some, and they weren’t cracked, or cut, or bruised. He didn’t agree with Cas--if Dad knew what they’d been up to, no way would he be proud. Dean wondered what Dad would say. They’d nearly destroyed the world half a dozen times; working with demons, making deals, selling souls, drinking blood.

 

He wondered what Dad would think if he found out about angels. Dad would probably react like he did, at first--disbelief, denial. He wondered if Dad would ever come around. Cas may not have his grace anymore, but he would always been an angel, in Dean’s eyes.

 

Dean’s guardian angel.

 

Dean stuck his hand back into his jeans pocket. He played with the silver ring. 

 

He realized--it didn’t matter what Dad would’ve thought. Dad wasn’t here. And even if he was here, it still wouldn’t matter.

 

Dean had his family. He had everything.

 

.

.

.

 

When they started the drive to Lawrence, it was already pitch black. If it continued to snow, Dean was going to have to switch out the tires; otherwise he’d have to bench Baby for the rest of winter, and that wasn’t something Dean wanted to do.

 

The snow crunched under the wheels and the moonlight made the landscape sparkle. Cas was pressed against the window in the backseat, staring outside. He looked up at the stars and moon. Dean wondered what they looked like to angels. How different was it to Cas now? Dean looked up briefly through the windshield. He’d grown up under the sky and stars and he felt small if he thought about it too long. He glanced back at Cas through the rearview mirror. It was like he was glued to the window.

 

Sam played navigator, but it really wasn’t necessary. This place was in Dean’s bones--somehow, he still remembered it all. The last time he’d been in Lawrence was when they freed Mom’s ghost from the old home; but that was over ten years ago now. Yet, Dean could still envision the city; the roads to take, the landmarks to be on the lookout for. 

 

He purposely avoids driving by their old house and takes the route to City Hall.  Even unlightened, the tree was visible from half a mile away; it was over fifty-feet tall and it cut through the dark sky like butter. They had to park across the road and cross the street, and even after that, they had to elbow their way through the crowd. 

 

The tree was covered in baubles and snowflake ornaments, with a white garland wrapping all the way around. People around them were murmuring; the air was full of “Merry Christmas!”es and people were smiling, laughing, all around; there were discussions of gifts for the children, and recipes for Christmas pies, plans for dinner. 

 

Dean glanced at his watch. It was six minutes to midnight. Sam’s face was red and he was smiling, breathing into his hands and rubbing them together. Cas just stared at the tree, his expression unreadable. 

 

There was a large grand piano set up on a stage in front of the tree. There was a priest and a woman talking to each other in front of it, worried looks on their faces. Dean stared at them, and Cas was looking at them too, expression pinched. 

 

Sam hit Dean gently to get his attention.

 

“Look at that!” Sam said, grinning. There was a little petting zoo with baby goats and lambs and one donkey set up in front of a little barn display; kids were lined up, holding buckets of feed that were too heavy for them, but they were determined anyway. Dean couldn’t help but grin too. 

 

“That’s actually really cute,” Dean said.

 

Dean turned back and Cas was gone.

 

Panic set in his heart for a moment before he caught sight of Cas up at the stage, talking with the priest. The priest gestured to the piano and Cas nodded. Then the priest smiled.

 

“Oh boy,” Dean said. “What’s he doing now?”

 

Cas sat down at the piano bench.

 

“Should we go get him?” Sam asked.

 

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but he was cut off as the priest started to speak into the microphone.

 

“Attention, everyone. Good evening. Merry Christmas!”

 

“Merry Christmas!” the crowd cheered.

 

“Mark, our usual pianist, has unfortunately fallen ill with the flu. But worry not! Castiel here has graciously offered his services for us to enjoy this evening.”

 

The crowd cheered; clapping, hollering, joy all around.

 

“Cas can play the piano?” Sam asked.

 

Dean didn’t have an answer. He stood and watched. The piano was facing sideways, so he could only see Cas’s profile, but it was stoic and concentrated. Cas cracked his knuckles and then he pressed his fingers to the keys.

 

Two notes in, the crowd started to sing along to Cas’s music.

 

_ Come All Ye Faithful _ played around them. It was like Dean was trapped in a tornado of the music. He couldn’t take his eyes off the careful and easy way Cas’s fingers danced across the keys, like he’d been doing it all his life. Cas visibly swallowed and then he leaned forward towards the microphone, joining in with the crowd’s singing.

 

“ _ Oh, come and behold Him, born the King of Angels. _ ” Cas’s voice was somber, yet, full of wonder, and he looked briefly to the sky, looking lost. “ _ Oh, come let us adore him, oh come let us adore him, oh come let us adore him-- _ ” Cas paused in his singing, but the crowd continued, and Cas’s music wrapped around them as the clock struck midnight and the lights danced up the tree, one by one.

 

“Wow,” Sam said, laughing. His breath clouded in front of his face, and it curled upwards, and Dean kept staring at Cas.

 

Cas started singing again, and his voice struck something within Dean. 

 

“ _ Oh, sing, choirs of Angels, sing in exultation! _ ”

 

Cas would always be an angel.

And up there, by the Christmas tree, with the tree lights surrounding him, and the snow under his feet, he looked looked more like an angel than he ever had before. 

 

It wasn’t the wings, or the sword, or even the ancientness etched into the lines of Cas’s face that made him an angel.  __ He just--was.

 

Even now, with mortal flesh that will age, and bones that will wither, and a memory that will soon start to fade--

 

Up there, on that stage, was an angel, singing about  _ faith. _

 

Giving music to people that otherwise would’ve had none.

 

Cas finished the first song and the people in the crowd cheered, clapping and whistling. Cas’s face flushed a bit, and he bit nervously on a fingernail. Even from back here, Dean could see his pupils were dilated. 

 

Dean cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, “Go, Cas!”

 

Cas met his eyes and Dean nodded, gave him a thumbs up and a grin. Cas smiled back nervously, then stared down at the keys again. 

 

_ Angels We Have Heard On High _ circled around them, The crowd started clapping to the beat, and Cas didn’t hesitate to join in on the singing this time. 

 

“ _ Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains. And the mountains in reply, echoing their joyous strains! _ ” Cas slammed down on the keys in enthusiasm. The crowd sang the chorus and Cas’s fingers danced easily across the keys. “ _ Shepherds why this jubilee? Why your joyous strains prolong? What the gladsome tidings bring which inspire your heavenly song?” _

 

Then Cas looked out in the crowd at Dean, not even glancing at the keys. “ _ Come to Bethlehem and see, him whose birth the angels sing.”  _  Cas’s face was stoic, serious, and so full of love that it made Dean’s throat swell.

 

Time went by so fast. Cas played song after song, each one from memory and the crowd was loving him. They cheered him, sang with him, clapped to the beats, whistled, hollered. 

 

But Dean’s focus was all on Cas. His fingers, his lips, his eyes; the easy way the words came from his throat; and sometimes when Cas sang, he looked over at Dean with that same intensity he always did; like he was seeing through Dean’s skin and bones all the way to his soul. 

 

Cas played  _ Go Tell It On The Mountain _ ,  _ Hark! The Herald Angels Sing _ ,  _ Silent Night _ ,  _ Ode to Joy _ , and even some more radio-pop music. 

 

And then, at last, Cas ended by playing  _ Come All Ye Faithful _ again.

 

When he played the last note, the crowd went wild. They’d been cheering all this time, but this--this was Mach 10. 

 

And Dean’s heart swelled with pride. He squeezed his way past everybody and jumped up onto the stage, grinning like a fool at Cas. 

 

“I didn’t know you could play.” He had to scream to be heard over the crowd. 

 

“Father loves music,” Cas said. “In Heaven, at this time of year, your songs would fill every corner and it was--” Cas sighed. “I can’t describe it. But it feels so much different here now, as a human.” He looked off into the sky again, at some distant thing Dean couldn’t see. 

 

Dean gnawed on his cheek. He stuck his hand into his pocket. It was technically Christmas now. 

 

He took Cas’s hand. Cas flinched in surprise, but he didn’t pull away.

 

“Cas,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you’re okay.” He thought about how he almost lost Cas this year; and then he thought about all the other times he almost lost Cas. The fact that Cas was right in front of him now, alive, breathing, was a miracle. Not a gift from God, but moreso their own human will--that drive that tells you to keep pushing, keep grinding, no matter the circumstances. “And,” Dean swallowed and pulled out the dumb ring. 

 

It was just a plain silver band, like his. Nothing fancy or expensive. But on the inner part of the ring were etchings--some basic protection symbols, but also, carefully inscribed was  _ Winchester _ in cursive. 

 

“You’re family,” Dean said, twirling the ring in his fingers. The moonlight caught it, and the Enochian symbols shined. “I don’t care if you’re an angel, or a human, or--or a  _ toad. _ I just want you here, with me.”

 

Dean was suddenly hyper-aware that the eyes of the crowd were on him. He swallowed and held the ring out to Cas. Cas stared at it like it might instantly shatter. He took it softly, gently, fingertips brushing against Dean’s. 

 

“I’m sorry you lost your wings,” Dean continued, all the frustration he’d been holding in for months now spilling out. “I’m sorry I can’t get them back. If I could, I would. But, I hope being here can be enough.”

Cas looked down at the ring, and there was a light in his eyes. His eyes were watering, and his nose was red--clearly suffering from allergies, being so close to the Christmas tree. Yet, he smiled softly. 

 

“Dean,” he said, slipping the ring onto his left hand. “You’re more than enough. You’re everything I need.”

 

The crowd behind them  _ awwww’d _ and cheered and Dean’s face flushed till he was redder than a lobster; but he still couldn’t help but grin like a buffon. 

 

“Kiss him, you idiot!” Sam’s voice called out from the crowd. Dean paused; then, he took Cas’s face in his hands and pressed their lips together.

 

Cas’s lips were dry, chapped--but so soft, and sweet at the same time. Like drinking Ambrosia. Cas’s hands reached backwards towards the piano, and somehow he played the notes of  _ Ode to Joy _ . Dean made a mental note to see about getting a piano in the bunker. 

 

A firework shot off behind them. Startled, they both flinched, and Dean chuckled as the sky filled with reds and greens and blues.

 

“Merry Christmas, Cas.”

 

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

 

.

.

.

 

By the time they got back to the bunker, the sun had started to rise and the the temperature had dropped at least another ten degrees.

 

They entered the bunker with snow dusting their hair; Dean’s fingers were intertwined with Cas’s, the cool metal of the ring a comfort Dean didn’t know he needed, but one he would cherish.

 

“Should I give you two a minute?” Sam asked, rising his eyebrows. Dean flipped him off.

 

“You might want to find some headphones,” Dean said. Sam gagged. Dean chortled. “That’s what I thought.”

 

Dean pulled Cas down towards his room and opened the door. 

 

From his entire ceiling hung dozens of little mistletoes. 

“Damn it, Sam,” Dean sighed. Cas’s brows were pinched.

 

“He does know that plant is poisonous, right?”

 

God, Dean loved this dork. He grabbed Cas by the scarf and pulled him towards the bed. “C’here, you,” and he slammed the door shut. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hi on [My Tumblr](https://castielsdisciple.tumblr.com)!


End file.
